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by VeloxVoid



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Almyra (Fire Emblem), Comfort No Hurt, Domestic Fluff, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fluff, Flying, Happy Ending, I have no idea what to tag this it's just a day in the life, One Big Happy Family, Post-Canon, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-War, Returning Home, Stressed Claude von Riegan, What Happened Next, Workplace, Wyverns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28699437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeloxVoid/pseuds/VeloxVoid
Summary: After the war, Cyril and Lysithea settle down in Almyra. Cyril’s new job as King Claude’s political advisor means he has his work cut out for him, but with Lysithea at his side, he knows he can tackle anything.
Relationships: Cyril & Claude von Riegan, Cyril/Lysithea von Ordelia
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celicalms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celicalms/gifts).



> Thank you so much to [Cy](https://twitter.com/possiblevoid) for beta-reading this for me! You're a life-saver!
> 
> This was written for dearest [Bushra](https://twitter.com/celicalms)! Thank you SO much for asking me, it means so much to me! This was an absolute blast to write and I just hope you like it as much as I liked writing it!
> 
> I'm [VeloxVoid](https://twitter.com/VeloxVoid) on Twitter if you'd like to follow me for more, although I'm currently taking a break for my mental health :)

It was good to be home.

After being pulled into the clutches of Fódlan, Cyril hadn’t imagined he’d ever see Almyra again. As much as he'd always told himself he was fine, and that Garreg Mach was his new home, he had missed his country dearly.

He had missed the views that met his eyes as Falak, his trusty wyvern, soared down into Almyran territory — multicoloured buildings stretching out as far as the eye could see, and the vibrant turquoise of the ocean lapping at the coasts. He had missed the warm, salty breeze whipping through his hair as Falak coasted on a current, descending slowly downwards into Zibaaghar, the country’s capital.

Most of all though, he had missed the little coos that left Lysithea's mouth from behind him, the way her arms tightened around his waist as the landscape came into view from behind the mountains.

“It’s so gorgeous,” she breathed. The city was nestled into a pocket of natural beauty: rolling hills that transformed slowly into rocky crags, with both cityscape and nature melding into one.

Cyril gave a high-pitched chuckle. “You say that every time!” 

Her laugh became caught on the wind as Falak continued her descent, the marvellous buildings — in all manners of metallic hues — rushing up closer to them by the second. “That’s because it’s true!” she giggled. “I’m so glad we moved here.”

That fact warmed Cyril’s heart. 

As they passed over the buildings, Falak spotted Rigāna Prāsāda, and began to circle down towards it. The centre of Almyra’s capital housed Rigāna Prāsāda, the palace where a very certain someone lived. Someone that Falak loved, and had decided to pay a visit to without Cyril’s permission.

Not that Cyril minded; he loved King Khalid too.

Their arrival was met with uproar. Falak landed clumsily, skidding to a halt on the gravel courtyard outside Rigāna Prāsāda’s main steps. They were not alone, however. A number of people surrounded the entrance to the palace, turning around to gaze upon the graceless wyvern tripping over her own claws behind them. Booming from one group came a familiar voice.

“Cyril! Brother!”

And a familiar face burst through the crowd to accompany it.

Cyril grinned broadly and slid down from Falak’s saddle, standing with arms outstretched as Khalid ran to greet him. The man wore similar clothes to what he had worn in the war — traditional Almyran garb: golden and beige with highlights of black and white. The robes of a noble — of a _king._ It made Cyril’s heart sing to finally see Khalid how he belonged.

“How was the visit?” Khalid asked as he wrapped Cyril in a fierce embrace. “How are your family, Lysithea? They’re welcome to come and live here too, you know.”

Lysithea accepted the hug Khalid offered her now. “I’ve told them! I’ve told them how great it is here, how they could retire by the sea, but they say they’d rather remain in Fódlan.” She shrugged. “What can you do?”

“Indeed.” Khalid gave a jokingly solemn nod. Then, suddenly, he stood up straight and clapped his hands together. “So! Cyril! C’mon, big day ahead!”

“Wait, what?” Cyril looked down to his shoulder as Khalid grasped onto it. His fingers dug in slightly too hard — a bad omen. _Oh, Khalid,_ Cyril couldn’t help thinking as his brow furrowed. _What’ve you done now?_

“Today’s speech day, about the new trade relations we’ve made with Brigid! I’m gonna be honest, I might need you to write it for me.”

Cyril found himself blinking in surprise, bombarded by the new information. “Hold on, that speech is today?”

Khalid gave a shrug. “It was going to be next month, but after negotiations, everything has been moved forward.”

Cyril stared at him for a moment, wide-eyed. “The speech is today… and you haven’t even written it yet?”

“I knew you’d be back in time to help me with it, little brother!” His confident smile wavered if only for a second. “Even if you are a little later than expected…”

 _Late…?_ “We were considering delaying our trip a day,” Cyril admitted.

He watched Khalid pale a little beneath the hearty laugh he gave.

In the eyes of anybody else, Cyril supposed Khalid’s behaviour in the face of a borderline crisis would be odd; on the surface he seemed positively calm. He smiled and laughed and waved off Cyril’s concerns with an insouciant wrist. Perhaps he even seemed unprofessional, what with how unfazed he was.

Of course, it was a facade. Cyril knew how much Khalid was panicking deep down; he could sense the edginess to his tone, the tightness to his shoulders. The man was incredible at masking his true emotions — he had been all throughout the war, and even before then, at the Officer’s Academy. Self preservation was something Cyril knew all too much about. Khalid was no stranger to it either, it seemed.

“So you need me to write about the new trade relations with Brigid?” he asked.

And Khalid wrapped an arm around both of Cyril’s shoulders, gesturing for Lysithea to follow them as he headed into the palace. “Sure do! I’ve got all of the information laid out. But you just have a… way with words, Cyril.”

“You’ve told me that before,” he muttered, feeling heat rise to his cheeks.

“He does, doesn’t he?” chirped Lysithea as she hopped up to their side.

“Man, quit it,” Cyril grumbled. He had never done well with compliments.

“I knew I’d made the right choice having him as my advisor! When I saw his speech-writing skills? There’s no other words for it than _astounded.”_

Of course, after he’d first learned to write, Cyril had written non-stop. He had noted down the thoughts that came to his mind — the silly little poems and lyrics he came up with as he cleaned. After joining Khalid’s cause, he had made notes of their war meetings; had jotted down the off-hand points Khalid would mutter to himself in the council tents. It had not gone unnoticed.

Now, as Khalid directed him through the beautiful palace with its marble floor and walls, into a plush-carpeted room filled by a polished wooden table and chairs, he was reminded of when his affinity for note-taking had first been appreciated.

* * *

“You write some really gorgeous stuff, huh?” Khalid had told him with a smirk, reading off of the parchment Cyril had left lying at the table. His heart had leapt to his throat, embarrassment making a sweat prickle across his skin.

“Oh, no, sorry, that’s just—”

“Note-taking?” Khalid had sauntered over to him, emerald eyes glinting with mischief. “I think you might be destined for more.”

The heir of Almyra had shown Cyril the speech he’d written up to encourage the troops before their next march, and had asked him to read over it. As Cyril had, his brain had snagged over a couple of the words, something nagging at him that they could be phrased better.

“Think you could help me out?” Khalid had asked with a cocked eyebrow and an irritatingly confident smirk.

“Yeah, definitely,” Cyril had responded.

* * *

Of course, Cyril was more than just Khalid’s speech-writer now; he was an advisor — well-versed in politics from his time in the armed forces as a child, from the war in Fódlan, and from training at Khalid’s side. Now, he helped the King with all manners of ruling. He steeled himself as he travelled through the council room, to a fantastically carved wooden seat; he would have his work cut out for him today.

Khalid sat next to him and pushed some papers in his direction. Cyril picked up a quill, squinted down at them, and began to read.

* * *

Lysithea’s voice was what made him snap back to reality.

“You only have an hour until the speech!”

“Huh?” Cyril had become so lost in his own words — in the legal jargon mingling with metaphors and niceties so as to become a politician’s perfect speech — that he had lost track of the real world.

“It’s that time already?” Khalid was approaching him from where he’d been pacing by the window. “How’re you doing, brother?”

Cyril cocked his head down at the paper. _“... to achieve peace”?_ No, he could do better. _“... to grasp what we’ve spent so long working towards: peace”._ He sat back in his chair and nodded. “How long does it take to reach the council hall?”

Khalid pressed his lips together in a tight, awkward smile. “In today’s traffic? Maybe thirty minutes?”

 _Damn._ Cyril shoved the papers back in Khalid’s direction. “Then this’ll have to do.”

Instead of taking them, the King leaned town and wrapped his arms around Cyril’s body, squeezing him tight. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“Agh.” Cyril felt himself blush. “No need. Are we done now?”

Khalid pulled away, a smirk embracing his lips. “You aren’t coming to watch my most stupendous peace speech?”

“Nah,” Cyril shrugged. “If you don’t need me, Lysi and I kinda just wanna go home.”

Disappointment was one emotion that Khalid had never quite managed to be able to hide. “Sure, sure! I understand,” he said, giving an enthused nod and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Lysithea stepped up to Cyril’s side, and they watched as Khalid busied himself about the room.

“Well now I feel bad,” Cyril whispered to Lysithea.

She gave a quiet chuckle in response. “I’m sure he’ll get over it. Look.”

They watched his officials bustle in and out of the doorway, one of them bellowing about how they ‘had to go, now!” The King tried to quell their panic as he stepped up to the council room’s huge, golden-framed mirror, speaking unconcerned reassurances to them in Almyran. As he began to straighten out his clothes, fussing over how his curls lay across his forehead, Cyril stepped up to his side.

“You’ll be okay?” he asked, placing a hand on the taller man’s shoulder.

“With your words on my side?” Khalid looked down to Cyril once more, delight dancing in his eyes, his disappointment forgotten. “I’ll be perfect!”

“If you’re sure,” shrugged Cyril.

With another embrace and a plethora of Almyran thank-yous, Khalid fled the room in a flurry of robes. Thoughts still circled Cyril’s mind in his wake, worries and frights and anxious hopes. “I hope what I wrote was good enough…”

Lysithea’s hand rubbed between his shoulders. “Of course it was. Khalid has confidence in you. You should have some more in yourself.”

“That’s easy for you to say! It’s like the weight of Brigid’s trade relations now rests in my hands...” He glanced down at them — a little rugged, looking more lined now he’d reached his mid-twenties.

But when he looked back up, Lysithea cocked her head at him, placing her hands on her hips. _Uh oh._ That look — that pouty furrow to her brow — was never a good sign. It was sign he'd been too snappy, and was about to endure her wrath.

“Man, sorry," he sighed, "it was just stressful—” But he was cut off as she chuckled, reaching up and kissing him on the cheek. He couldn’t resist giving a little giggle in return, and held onto Lysithea’s hand tightly. “We should be goin’ home. Falak’ll be ravenous by now.”

“Of course.”

Together, the two of them passed through Rigāna Prāsāda’s grand corridors hand-in-hand, leaving the shade of the building to be graced with the strength of Almyra’s sun outside. Khalid’s carriages were just leaving through the palace gates, and Falak was snapping happily at the hands of the stableboys trying to remove her from the courtyard.

“No need,” Cyril called out to them as they approached, hearing the wyvern snuffle gleefully as she ran to greet them. “We’re just leaving.”

The employees of Khalid’s palace bid him and Lysithea farewells, announcing that it was nice to see them and that they were welcome back any time. Information Cyril already knew. The two of them climbed deftly back up onto Falak’s back, the supple leather saddle comfortable beneath them, and Cyril spurred her into flight.

The ascent was fast, but nothing Cyril wasn’t used to; the wyvern’s wings beat powerfully to take them up over Rigāna Prāsāda’s gates, gaining height and speed as they rushed over the city’s roads and pathways. The flight back home would not take long.

Cyril directed Falak over to the coast, where the sea breeze washed over them: warm, refreshing, and smelling of salt and home. They glided on the ocean air’s currents, over the pink-sanded beaches and the shore markets, towards the small villages that circled Zibaaghar on all sides. The buildings grew more and more rugged the further out of the capital they travelled, until eventually Cyril’s eyes fell upon small, quaint, rough-bricked bungalows that drew a warmth to dance around his heart.

They had reached Sundara.

His village. In a word, Sundara was _cosy._ It lacked the finesse and extravagance of Zibaaghar, but it was happy about it. Proud; Sundara belonged solely to the hundred-or-so people who resided within it — who had built it back up out of the rubble after Fódlan had razed it, much to Cyril’s surprise.

Yes, Cyril had been brought to shocked, stupefied tears to find his village still around. Not only still around, but thriving. His parents’ house had been rebuilt and sat empty, a memorial of the losses it had endured. Thus, Sundara’s surviving villagers had been delighted to welcome Cyril back into it, and Lysithea too.

It was not nearly as lavish as the Ordelia family manor back in Leicester, and a hundred leagues away from the luxuries of Rigāna Prāsāda, but that was just how Cyril liked it. It was how he was comfortable. After he and Lysithea had redecorated their house with all the trinkets she’d collected over the years, and with traditional Almyran furnishings that made Cyril smile, it was perfect. Better than any palace or manor house or monastery. It was all he could ask for.

The wooden stable that had been assembled at its side was the icing on the cake. Upon landing, with Falak nuzzling into the tufts of grass growing outside their house, Cyril tied up his wyvern while Lysithea fetched her a bucket of feed. As she stuffed her face inside it, grunting happily, they thanked her with scratches between her horns. They unloaded her of her saddle and their bags of belongings, and together, they turned and unlocked the door into their home.

The scent was always the first thing Cyril picked up on when returning home. The first time, after the war, the smell had been so… _new._ There was no essence of home as there had once been: the scents of his mother’s incense embedded into the walls, nor the lingering aroma left from cooking meals. There was no charred wood from the fireplace hitting the backs of his nostrils, no bubbling stew from the kitchen — not even the soft, natural must of the age-old carpet, a comforting embrace after a long day.

When Cyril returned home after the war, there had been nothing. The rooms were bare, filled only with the earthy scent of plaster atop brickwork, and the pine floorboards, smooth and recently furnished. _This is no home,_ Cyril had thought as he looked around the house that had one been his. _This is a shell._

Thus, he had made it his home. Only with Lysithea’s help and interior decorating skills had he been able to transform the house from bare bones to the inviting, cosy, utterly homely place that they walked into now.

Amber and cream paint brought warmth to its walls, while a rug made from handsome sunset-hued fibres softened their footsteps. They now had a sofa, a low coffee table, a taller dinner table with wooden chairs, and an entire station set into one corner where the two of them cooked dinner together. That familiar scent had embedded itself into the walls again; the floral sweetness of Lysithea’s perfume and the natural mellow must of a house well lived in. It wrapped around each of Cyril’s muscles and embraced him, relaxing him, making him exhale a deep breath.

This was home. Lysithea placed their bags upon the coffee table and sank deep into the sofa, one hand stroking gently over the half-finished crochet she’d left on its arm upon their departure. Cyril closed the door behind him, locked it up again, and looked out around.

At long, long last, he was back in Almyra. He was back home, where he belonged. His mind grew heavy after the work he’d done today — his work as King Khalid’s advisor never failed to sweep him off his feet — but he was happy. He was important, wanted, and loved, and he finally knew it.

Wandering over to where Lysithea sat, evidently exhausted from the day’s journey given the weary smile upon her face, he sat down next to her, wrapping an arm around her. She snuggled into him, his shoulder the perfect shape to cradle her head, and he turned to plant a kiss atop her head. Dark brown hairs were beginning to grow around her crown, a reminder of a lifted curse, and he felt happiness swell within him.

“I love you, Lysi,” he whispered into the silence, filled only by their soft breathing.

Her sweet voice came right back at him. “I love you too, Cyril.”

This, what he now called his life, was perfection.


End file.
